"You make this run often?" she asked, with a little wonder as to who the man was. His dress was much above the average, his boat was a beautiful and costly thing, and she had not learned, in the haste of her departure, who her boatman was.
"Not very often. Haven't been up this way for two weeks now."
"But that is often," she said. "Are you located in this country?"
"Well--yes, I have been. I struck a silver lode across the hills in yon direction. I've sold out and am only prospecting around just now, not settled anywhere yet. My name is McCoy."
"McCoy!" and like a flash she remembered the post-script of Mrs. Huzzard's letter. "Oh, yes--I've heard of you."
"You have? Well, that's funny. I didn't know my name had got beyond the ranges."
"Didn't you? Well, it got across the country to Manhattan Island--that's where I was when it reached me," and she smiled quizzically. "You know Mrs. Huzzard writes me letters sometimes."
"And do you mean--did she--"
"Yes, she did--mentioned your name very kindly, too," she said, as he hesitated in a confused way. Then, with all the gladness of home-coming in her heart and her desire that no heart should be left heavy, she added: "And, really, as I told you before, I don't think you need much help."
The kindly, smiling eyes of the man thanked her, as he drove the canoe through the clear waters. Above them the stars were commencing to gleam faintly, and all the sweet odors of the dusk floated by them, and the sweetest seemed to come to her from the north.
"We will not stop over--let us go on," she said, when he spoke of Sinna Ferry. "I can paddle while you rest at times, or we can float there on the current if we both grow tired; but let us keep going."
But ere they reached the little settlement, a canoe swept into sight ahead of them and when it came near, Captain Leek very nearly fell over the side of it in his anxiety to make himself known to Miss Rivers.
"Strangest thing in the world!" he declared. "Here I am, sent down to telegraph you and wait a week if need be until an answer comes; and half-way on my journey I meet you just as if the message had reached you in some way before it was even put on paper. Extraordinary thing--very!"
"You were going to telegraph me? What for?" and the lightness of her heart was chased away by fear. "Is--is any one hurt?"
"Hurt? Not a bit of it. But Harris thinks he is worse and wanted you, until Dan concluded to ask you to come. I have the message here somewhere," and he drew out a pocket-book.
"Dan asked me to come? Let me see it, please," and she unfolded the paper and read the words he had written--the only time she had ever seen his writing in a message to her.
A lighted match threw a flickering light over the page, on which he said:
"Joe is worse. He wants you. Will you come back?
"DAN OVERTON."
She folded it up and held it tight in her hand under the cloak she wore. He had sent for her! Ah! how long the night would be, for not until dawn could she answer his message.
"We will go on," she said. "Can't you spare us a boatman? Mr. McCoy has outstripped our Indian extras who have our outfit, and he needs a little rest, though he won't own up."
"Why, of course! Our errand is over, too, so we'll turn back with you. I just passed Akkomi a few miles back. He is coming North with the season, as usual. I thought the old fellow would freeze out with the winter; but there he was drifting North to a camping-place he wanted to reach before stopping. I suppose we'll have him for a neighbor all summer again."
The girl, remembering his antipathy to all of the red race, laughed and raised in her arms the child, that had awakened.
"All I needed to perfect my return to the Kootenai country was the presence of Akkomi," she confessed. "I should have missed him, for he was my first friend in the valley. And it may be, Mr. McCoy, that if he is inclined to be friendly to-night, I may ask him to take me the rest of the way. I want to talk to him. He is an old friend."
"Certainly," agreed McCoy; but he evidently thought her desire was a very peculiar one.
"But you will have a friend at court just the same--whether I go all the way with you or not," she said and smiled across at him knowingly.
Captain Leek heard the words, too, and must have understood them, for he stared stonily at the big, good-looking miner. Their greeting had been very brief; evidently they were not congenial spirits.
"Is that a--a child?" asked the captain, as the little creature drooped drowsily with its face against 'Tana's neck; "really a child?"
"Really a child," returned the girl, "and the sweetest, prettiest little thing in the world when her eyes are open." As he continued to stare at her in astonishment while their boats kept opposite each other, she added: "You would have sooner expected to see me with a pet bear, or wolf, wouldn't you?"
"Yes; I think I would," he confessed, and she drew the child closer and kissed it and laughed happily.
"That is because you only know one side of me," she said.
The stars were thick overhead, and their clear light made the night beautiful. When they reached the boats of Akkomi, only a short parley was held, and then an Indian canoe darted out ahead of the others. Two dark experts bent to the paddles and old Akkomi sat near the girl and the child. Looking in their dusky faces, 'Tana realized more fully that she was again in the land of the Kootenais.
It was just as she would have chosen to come back, and close against her heart was pressed the message by which he had called her.
The child slept, but she and the old Indian talked now and then in low tones all through the night. She felt no weariness. The air she breathed was as a tonic against fatigue, and when the canoe veered to the left and entered the creek leading to camp, she knew her journey was almost over.
The dusk was yet over the land, a faint whiteness touched the eastern edge of the night and told of the dawn to come, but it had not arrived.
The camp was wrapped in silence. Only the watch-man of the ore-sheds was awake, and came tramping down to the shore when their paddles dipped in the water and told him a boat was near. It was the man Saunders.
"Miss Rivers!" he exclaimed, incredulously. "Well, if this isn't luck! Harris will about drop dead with joy when he sees you. He took worse just after dark last night. He says he is worse, though he can talk yet. I was with him a little while, and how he did worry because you wouldn't get here before he was done for! Overton has been with him all night; went to bed only an hour ago. I'll call the folks up for you."
"No," said the girl, hastily; "call no one yet. I will go to Joe if you will take me. If he is so bad, that will be best. Let the rest sleep."
"Can I carry the--the baby?" he asked, doubtfully, and took the child in his arms with a sort of fear lest it should break. He was not the sort of man to be needlessly curious, so he showed no surprise at the rather strange adjunct to her outfit, but carried the little sleeper into the pretty sitting room, where he deposited it on a couch, and the girl arranged it comfortably, that it might at last have undisturbed rest.
A man in an adjoining room heard their voices and came to the door.
"You can come out for a while, Kelly," said Saunders. "This is Miss Rivers. She will want to see him."
A minute later the man in charge had left 'Tana alone beside Harris.
All the life in him seemed to gather in his eyes as he looked at her.
"You have come! I told him you would--I told Dan," he whispered, excitedly. "Come close; turn up the light; I want to see you plain. Just the same girl; but happier--a heap happier, ain't you?"
"A heap happier," she agreed.
"And I helped you about it some--about the mine, I mean. I like to think of that, to think I made some return for the harm I done you."